


vampires love punk

by someplacelikebolivia



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), True Blood (TV)
Genre: All of these characters could legitimately have been in London at this time, London, Punk, Vampires, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 01:50:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20145583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someplacelikebolivia/pseuds/someplacelikebolivia
Summary: It's London in 1982. For some reason, Spike and Bill Compton are in the same club. Both of them are huge posers, and neither of them knows it.This was written as a gift for newtonartemis on the occasion of her conquering graduate school ❤️





	1. Chapter 1

It was the perfect hunting ground, dark, crowded, and noisy. A person could go to the loo and not return, or meet a stranger, follow them outside to the alley, and disappear. No one would question it. Or at least, no one would question it until it was too late.

He shouldered up to the bar, trying to catch the eye of the bartender but having no luck. The music pounded the air, ringing in his ears. On the stage, an elfin-faced glam rock singer dressed all in rather passé glittery spandex finished his set, and the echoing bass and drums were quickly replaced by jangling guitar. The new singer began pleading to get what he wanted for apparently, the first time. As if, he thought. Following his father and grandmother into the family business, he had put aside childhood dreams. That life was never for him. Now, instead of serving his country as a fighter pilot (or perhaps a grocer), here he was, in a seedy Chelsea club, unable to decide whether he was glad or annoyed that he stood out among the crowd of gelled hair, casually ripped clothing, and eyeliner on everyone.

The vampire he sought tonight would not be easy to kill. Only a century old, and already responsible for the deaths of two slayers, one only a few years ago. Apparently, this one fancied himself a bit of a connoisseur, targeting the rarest and most dangerous prey available. At the last report, from Bernard Crowley in New York, his target kept his hair bleached blond, dressed almost entirely in black, and was likely wearing a long leather coat, stolen from the slayer after her death. Glancing around, he shook his head. That description didn’t exactly narrow down the room.

Finally he caught the barkeep’s attention, only to lose it immediately to a dark haired man wearing inexpertly applied eyeliner, and to his ear, a very creatively interpreted Cockney accent. He huffed in annoyance. If he couldn’t even order a pint, maybe the club wasn’t worth his time tonight. He could hunt as well out there as he could in here. A flash of blond hair at the doors caught his eye just as a shout came from across the room, a familiar voice calling a name he hadn’t heard in years. “Ripper! Mate, is that you?” He turned away, making for the emergency exit and the alley that lay beyond. The council was depending on him, he couldn’t afford any distractions.

_Old habits die hard._ He felt for the stake concealed in the inner pocket of his coat. _Some die harder than others._


	2. A bonus scene that was the actual intention of this fic when I started it

He wasn’t looking. He wasn’t. It was just, the guy had stood right next to him, choosing the only spot guaranteed to make Bill uncomfortable, and interrupting his focus on not processing the varied and horrible smells embedded in the tiles of the room. And so what, he was allowed to glance. Everyone glanced. Especially if the person pissing next to them looked weirdly familiar, with his long black coat and bleached hair. A musician, maybe?

The man cleared his throat, surprising Bill into snapping his eyes back front and center. He smirked and zipped up his faded black jeans. “You were looking.”

He protested, but quickly stuttered to a halt, realizing that in his distraction he’d forgotten to maintain his still-unfamiliar accent. Thankful that he had no heartbeat to push an embarrassed flush to his face, Bill finished up, moving to the sink. He might be a creature of darkness, but there was such a thing as sanitation.

Not so for his companion, apparently. Bill frowned as he watched the man wipe his hands on his jeans, then reach into his pocket. He pulled out, of all things, an eyeliner pencil and leaning against the wall began to swipe it on carelessly.

“There’s a mirror right here, mate,” Bill said, meeting his own reflected gaze. The mirror sported a dozen cracks, but was perfectly serviceable otherwise.

“Don’t need it.”

Bill glanced over, drying his hands, and smirked. “I wouldn’t count on that. Here.” He snatched the pencil away, speeding up his movement just enough to beat the other man’s reflexes, but not enough to be noticed. Or at least, it shouldn’t have been noticed.

“Who are you?”

He didn’t answer, crowding the man back, one hand propped on the wall to support his carefully calculated lean, a barrier to flight for his unsuspecting prey. “I’d rather know who you are,” he murmured, allowing a bit of glamour to color his speech. “Or I can just call you Billy Idol, if you’d prefer.”

“William,” his prey replied, then looked slightly surprised at his own answer.

Bill laughed, raising his hand to William’s face and wiping away a stray smudge of eyeliner with his thumb. “I’m Bill,” he responded. “Now hold still right there.”

William froze under the glamour, allowing Bill to lean in and slowly, carefully fix the mess he’d made of his liner, holding eye contact the entire time and enjoying the power his glamour held. When Bill leaned back and pronounced his work finished, William swayed a little in place before blinking back to full awareness.

“Follow me.” Bill commanded, and left the loo, turning immediately toward the emergency exit door at the end of the darkened hall. He didn’t look back, knowing that William followed him. A little lamb, lost and soon to be a wolf’s dinner.

Spike smirked as the Bill led the way to the alley. He hadn’t yet decided whether he would give the idiot man what he was looking for before Spike took what he really wanted. As the heavy emergency door swung shut behind them, Spike reversed their previous positions, pressing Bill against the wall and leaning in close. He bent his head toward Bill’s neck, to kiss or bite, he was still undecided. Bill was fit enough, he supposed. And more importantly, Dru was away. There was nothing to stop him from having a bit of fun before dinner. The night would end the same either way, with Spike satisfied and Bill’s fake Cockney arse lying dead on the pavement.

**Author's Note:**

> After a much-too-deep dive into the history of punk & post-punk in London in the early 80s, I learned that the Smiths were officially founded in late 1982, and didn't perform in London until early 1983. However, I had them play in the club anyway because I do not care, and this is a story about vampires. The song is of course "Please, please, please let me get what I want", which wasn't released until 1984, making it a perfect song for Morrissey to try out in a small imaginary London club in 1982.
> 
> Also I would like to add that apparently William has not been out of the top 20 boys names in the U.S. since 1900, according to the Social Security Administration. This is not important information, but since there are technically three people named William in this story, it seemed relevant.


End file.
